


I will walk with you always (Acrylic & Polyester)

by SaerM



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Can be read as romantic too if you like, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hugs, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slice of Life, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Winter, hugs without plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22754842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaerM/pseuds/SaerM
Summary: It's a crisp winter day, but all is cosy and warm on the South Downs.“Best wrap up warm, angel!” calls Crowley, and the wonderful sound of it bounces around the warm-coloured walls and wooden floors of the cottage to Aziraphale, where he’s standing, waiting, in the hall.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	I will walk with you always (Acrylic & Polyester)

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this story as a gift. I hope you enjoy it.

“Best wrap up warm, angel!” calls Crowley, and the wonderful sound of it bounces around the warm-coloured walls and wooden floors of the cottage to Aziraphale, where he’s standing, waiting, in the hall. 

It’s England. The countryside. And _January_. As if they haven’t been living here for years now, long enough to become savvy to the wiles of _no-really-it’s-practically-summer-out-here!_ blue winter skies. Today the frost is out too, armed with its sparkly white highlighter and doing an admirable job of thwarting the other, more guileful, weather phenomena. So Aziraphale is indeed dressed warmly and it’s the sentiment, more than any practicality, that makes Aziraphale’s insides bubble with familiar, ancient fondness. 

To be fair though, Aziraphale is British in all the ways that matter, including an unfortunate predisposition towards climatic optimism at only the worst of times. Recalling the last time that he’d been caught out, just one of many, Aziraphale decides Crowley is probably right to remind him. Fondness swells, and the space between his heart and throat feels full to bursting with it as he checks himself over quickly- all accoutrements are indeed in their proper places. 

“I shan’t be cold, dearest,” he says, loud enough for Crowley to hear. “This new-fangled apparel really is something, I must say!” 

Aziraphale’s new ensemble of winter clothing is outdoorsy in a way that should be jarring, given he’s been wearing approximately the same outfit- one that proclaims ‘indoorsy!’ loudly and unapologetically at every lovely curve- for a very long time. But they suit him, these new clothes: a coat that’s warm-quilted and the colour of milky tea; trousers slightly lighter which should be murder for mud-stains but aren’t; and dark suede boots with shearling-trim and pastel-rainbow laces. The laces were purchased specially, and _my_ , Aziraphale thinks, they are wonderfully jaunty. Around his neck, puffed up and tucked almost to his ears, is a robin’s-egg blue scarf. It’s tied loosely in a double ascot.

Crowley lurches around the corner and jars to a stop, still grasping tightly at the door’s archway from having achieved optimum swing and looking Aziraphale over carefully. Appreciatively. Really, he could not be saying ‘you look _adorable’_ any louder if he used words. Crowley’s in black jeans and a blacker coat. The well-worn jumper that peeks out from underneath looks like one of Aziraphale’s, with a black-miracled veneer of plausible deniability. 

Regular strolls are one of the many new norms that have blossomed from their relocation to the Downs. It’s an easy and enjoyable habit, one that came about easily- the garden needs admiring and the neighbours need visiting. Or, as Crowley puts it, they need to be kept under _surveillance_. The neighbours too. 

Now, Aziraphale tends to rank sloe bushes, slugs, and bumblebee nests as just as worthy of visit as say, that Chris Loune on Saddlescombe Road, or- _God and Satan forbid_ \- Ms Lawry on Cora’s Walk. As such, their walks are rarely confined to pavement and people would have talked, two men- _city folk, you can tell-_ fussing about through the undergrowth in everyday clothes, no matter how swish Aziraphale considers a good three-piece suit. Aziraphale had lamented this loudly and at length during the required sartorial missions to Mountain Warehouse and ‘The Internet’. 

The get-up is technically unnecessary, of course, as both of them can make human interest slip from them like a tree frog on Teflon. Neither Aziraphale or Crowley, however, are comfortable with the ghost-like sensation of invisibility.

Aziraphale sighs happily, with the intonation that invites one to ask _‘what’s up?’_ or- should one be more eloquently inclined- to raise an eyebrow in that _‘what’s got you so happy, then?’_ way.

Framed in the doorway, Crowley responds in neither of these perfectly reasonable ways, just makes a scoffing noise of exasperation in the back of his throat.

“Hm,” Aziraphale says in return, a noise of utmost scandalisation that approximately says: _‘How dare you ignore me, you absolute demon, when I quite obviously want you to ask me why I’m happy-sighing’._

“Angel. You tell me it’s soft every time you wear it.” He’s known Aziraphale for over six millenia, and _occasionally_ his angel-translations do come through accurately.

“Oh, it _is_ soft though. Darling- feel!”

“I got it for you specifically- Aziraphale- _sspecifically_ because I knew you’d like how soft it was. Which I told you. _Ergo_ -” Crowley, blushing, grasps at too many possible diversions and splutters a lottery of syllables, none of which prevent Aziraphale’s recollection: Crowley had given it to him when at their usual place in St. James’s, all ultra-casual and cool... until he wasn’t. 

_“Ergo_ ,” he continues, wriggling his elbows because h is hands are caught deep in his pockets and he needs to ward off that aggressively gentle smile _somehow_. “I know it’s soft, you know that I know it’s soft, and you know that I know that you know-” He pauses to untangle himself. “You- with the thing, the sigh- and the eyes! It’s soft! I know!” 

Crowley has probably never said the word ‘soft’ so many times in such quick succession in his life. He ducks down to rearrange the snacks that neatly fill his backpack.

“It was a very good gift, dear,” says Aziraphale, unperturbed and smiling fondly. “It’s just- it’s so impossibly soft that I’m surprised every time!” 

Crowley makes a considering noise, rising, like it’s a great concession. He stalks across the old, red-patterned rug in his heavy black boots, stylish enough to not just be a surrender to the realities of winter.

Although, really, now Aziraphale thinks about it, perhaps it’s more of a flounce and- oh! 

Crowley is diving at Aziraphale, and smoothly submerges his face into the scarf. Aziraphale breathes out a laugh. “I didn’t mean... Honestly, Crowley,” he says, voice carrying more softness than any material ever could. 

Crowley noses his way further into the scarf. “Mm... You’re right, I forgot. S’nice,” the sound being soaked up by the scarf enough that it’s almost inaudible, just a murmur. 

Aziraphale sweeps his hands up to twirl the shortest hair that’s creeping out from below Crowley’s hat. The gloves he’s wearing are conveniently fingerless for the moment. “There, there,” he says, smiling. “I did warn you.”

“Hghhrr.” 

Giving the red hair a final smoothing down, Aziraphale moves to hold him properly. It feels strange through their coats and layers. Aziraphale can’t feel the slightest impression of Crowley’s ribs, nor any other of his human-shaped scaffolding, beneath his hands. It’s different to the soft looping of arms in their everyday clothes, where Aziraphale can feel their curves and angles; and it’s different to holding each other through the night, dressed only in skin or a single layer. To him, now, Crowley feels solid and everlasting, though Aziraphale feels no less protective: physical appearance has had little to do with his private, enduring conviction of Crowley’s fragility. They’re still so new to this, Aziraphale realises; to think, that there must yet be more ways to experience their togetherness. 

Aziraphale hugs on tighter, pulling Crowley in enough to feel the lines of themselves meeting, despite all the clothing. Crowley’s jacket is drawn taut at the back, pulled so by Aziraphale’s hands.

A radiator chinks softly a room away.

Still immersed in scarf, chin hooked slightly over a well-covered shoulder, Crowley’s fingers are only loosely interlocked behind Aziraphale’s back, even as he is held tightly in turn. Because this affection is very much a gift, to him, from Aziraphale. Crowley stands and basks. He’s learnt to trust in Aziraphale’s affection like reptiles trust the sun: instinctually. Irrepressibly.

Eventually they part, as they always manage to do. It’s a gentle drawing back, Aziraphale rubbing with his hands all the while. Because, while this really is far preferable to anything that Outside has to offer, they have a plan for the day. And Aziraphale likes sticking to plans. They can continue this later, when there are no distractions. He makes a note to do just that, though it’s not like he could possibly forget. 

“Let’s go,” Crowley says, turning away. His voice is rough. 

It overcomes him so easily, even now- being loved- and Aziraphale reaches over, his fingertips at Crowley’s wrist. He goes to slot his fingers between Crowley’s, grazing his gloves over Crowley’s bare skin on the way down. 

Crowley smiles- 

Well, Aziraphale doesn’t see the smile- doesn’t need to, you see- but he reads it in the shift of his shoulders and the general air of a restrained shuffle.

“Let’s,” he says, and leads the way, boots clomping dully on wood and then the stone flooring of the porch.

The door, when it opens, lets in a squall of cold so sudden and so strong that Aziraphale thinks it must have been waiting, gathering its breath, on the doormat. A blackbird chatters from within the nearby hedgerow and iciness searches out every sliver of skin. He pulls his scarf higher, up around his ears and mouth, and palms his hat down as low as it will go. Turning, he does the same for Crowley and, producing a pair of Crowley’s preferred sunglasses from his own coat pocket, he tucks them carefully, so their arms slide underneath the sides of his hat. 

As they make their way from the cottage, Aziraphale marvels, as always, at the beauty that lives here, on Earth, in Creation: the crunch of grass, the smell of cold air, the life that’s everywhere, no matter the season. He admires the ice-glimmering geometry of spider webs and the way grey, lichen-dressed tree branches splinter the perfect sky. 

Later, at the end of the afternoon when the light is fading, Crowley turns with a cheeky smile and, unasked, blows a kiss from his palm that renews Aziraphale’s clothing to its usual implausibly immaculate state. Aziraphale follows the miracle back to its origin and takes Crowley’s hand in his, gently kissing the chilled palm. This, undoubtedly, his favourite piece of Creation. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was based on something I saw my friend and their partner do and, as you may be able to imagine, I just about melted from the cuteness of it. And then immediately thought, 'But what if it were Aziraphale & Crowley...'  
> Hope you enjoyed! If you're thinking of leaving a comment, then pleassse do- I'll treasure it, no matter if it's an emoji or a little sentence just to say hi!  
> (And let me know about any typos because I've read this so many times that I can't see it straight anymore)
> 
> Also, if you're interested, the place names are from an area of the South Downs near Devil's Dyke, where there's apparently an old [legend](https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/devils-dyke/features/devils-dyke-myth-and-legend) about two people tricking the Devil in order to save their people and homes from destruction. Seems like the kind of place our Ineffables would settle, no?


End file.
